Литагент HarperCollins - Something Inbetween

“Stop!” Dad isn’t crying anymore. He slams his open hand against the table. “You should consider yourself lucky. If someone finds out our papers are fake, our entire family could be deported. Your mother’s already struggling with her supervisor asking questions at the hospital. If all of us aren’t careful, our luck will run out.”

Deported? Oh my God. I didn’t even think of that. It’s not just about not being able to go to college. We might lose our entire life here. The cold that’s settled around my body turns to ice. There’s no way I can go back to live in the Philippines. I can barely speak Tagalog. My life is here. In America.

I grab the letter away from them and scan the application. “But why can’t I accept the scholarship money? We have papers, you said. I’ll just use the fake ones. I don’t care.”

“No, absolutely not,” Dad says. “You’d be lying to the government. To the president of the United States.”

“I seriously doubt the president will personally be looking at my application...”

“It doesn’t matter, Jas. We have to be careful. If you get caught, are you going to go back to Manila by yourself?”

“So what was the point of me studying so hard, then? If I’m not eligible for loans or a grant, I won’t even be able to go to college. Everything I’ve worked for is totally wasted.” I’ve given up so much to be the best, to be number one. I’ve never had any fun outside of school. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed? I’m seventeen now.

Mom looks down at her lap. Her frustration has been replaced by a pained expression. It’s a face that I’ve rarely seen on her. “We were hoping something would come through—the latest immigration reform bill maybe.” She puts her head in her hands. “Or maybe you can go to school in the Philippines.”

Anger keeps working up inside me until I can’t stop the rush of words coming from my mouth. “No! No way! I don’t want to go to the Philippines! It’s your home. Not mine. You’re always talking about taking advantage of opportunities here. But haven’t you heard? There aren’t any for illegal immigrants.”

Rage radiates from my chest near where I’d held the letter so close to my heart. I’m shaking. How could my parents hide this from me for so long? How could they bury their heads and just expect everything to turn out for the best? If they had told me earlier, I could have gotten help. I could have done something.

I’m American. We’re resourceful, aren’t we?

Mom has started weeping quietly. Dad seems shocked at my yelling. I know I’ve pushed it too far, but I can’t help the words ripping from my tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I yell. “I can’t believe you guys kept this from us for so long!” My knees are locked too tight. I feel dizzy. I just talked back to my parents.

“Jasmine!” Dad stands from his chair and reaches to steady me.

It feels like there’s no ground beneath me, like everything I’ve ever done has been a lie. Like Los Angeles has never really been my home. I’m breaking apart, shattering. Who am I? Where do I belong?

I’m not American. I’m not a legal resident. I don’t even have a green card.

I’m nothing. Nobody.

Illegal.

6

There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.

—PAULO COELHO

FRIDAY NIGHT. Our football team lost again, but we cheered them on anyway. We change out of our cheer clothes at Kayla’s. She’s excited and nervous, bouncing up and down as she curls her lashes and puts on her lipstick. I’m edgy too, but I’m not ready to tell her what my parents told me the other day. I’m too embarrassed, and if I don’t tell anyone, maybe it won’t be true. To be honest, I just want to forget about it for a night. Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.

Royce and I have been texting a little, and the other day he sent me a friend request on Snapchat and on Facebook. I accepted both. He hasn’t posted a new story on Snapchat, so I scroll through his FB feed again, impressed and annoyed at the same time. There are all these photos of him skiing in Mammoth with friends and boating in Newport with his family. When he smiles, his teeth are blindingly white, like an actor in a commercial. He’s way too handsome to be any good for anyone. Especially me.

His life looks like a cooler version of a Ralph Lauren ad. I squint at a photo of his mother. She looks like a less bombastic Sofia Vergara.

Is your mom Latina? I text him right then, out of the blue. Because I’m curious and jealous at the same time. Because just a few days ago, I thought I was just like him. Mixed race. Hyphenated American. But American.

royceb: My grandfather is Mexican. Mom is Mexican-Italian. Why do you ask? My dad is Norwegian-German by the way. English-Irish too I think. Who knows? Aren’t we all just American?

Not me, not anymore, I can’t help but think. Annoyed, I don’t text him back. What’s the point? He’s just some cute rich guy I’ll never see again. Let’s be serious. Guys like that don’t date girls like me. They only hook up with girls like me, and I’m not about to be anyone’s booty call. Not even for someone as cute as him...

Besides, his dad is a congressman who thinks all undocumented immigrants should be deported. Frightening. Another reason to steer clear.

Kayla comes out of the bathroom and sees me holding my phone. “Who’s that?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.

“Remember I told you about that cute guy I met at the hospital the other day?”

She perks up. “Yeah. Hey, you should invite him to the party!”

I’d thought of that earlier, when he asked what I was doing this weekend, but decided against it. “No.”

“Why not?”

“He lives on the other side of the city all the way in Bel-Air. By the time he gets here, the party will be over.” In truth, I was embarrassed about inviting a rich Westside kid over to the Valley. I look at all the photos on his FB page again. It confirms everything I assumed, from the way he dressed to the confident way he’d gotten my number. He’s a total player, and I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Besides, what if he thought the party was lame? That I was lame?

“God, Jas, you make it sound like Bel-Air is a different planet,” says Kayla with a sniff.

Kayla drives us past Lo’s place. Cars are bunched in the driveway and along the curb; kids are milling on the streets. I told my parents I’d be staying the night at Kayla’s house. After the blowup at the dinner table on Wednesday, they let me sleep over without asking any questions. I’m glad I’m going to this party and doubly glad my parents have no idea where I am. I’m going to have fun—the kind of fun that I’m never allowed to have.

I deserve to let my hair down. Maybe even meet a boy. (But I’ve already met a boy, I think.) No matter. I’ll have fun anyway. Dance a little. Get outside of myself.

“Look at all the cars,” Kayla says. “We’re going to have a good time. You’re going to have a good time, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

“There’s a bag behind my seat. Can you get it for me?”

I reach back for the bag. As I pick it up, I hear bottles clink. I turn to her, trying not to sound accusatory. “I didn’t know you were planning to drink.”

“It’s only a couple of beer bottles. Barely anything. Don’t worry. If I drink a little at the beginning, I’ll have a chance to sober up before we go home.”

I haven’t even thought about drinking. My parents would kill me if I took even one sip. Filipinos believe “nice girls” don’t even think of drinking.

Our house has been quieter than normal since the news. Most of the noise comes from either Danny and Isko shouting at each other about dumb little brother things like who will grow up to be the tallest or smartest. No one has told my brothers anything.